


Dragon Heart

by dedicatedfollower467



Series: And Rivers Golden Run [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Fíli and Kíli Live, Fíli as King, Gen, Gold Sickness, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 22:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11240871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedicatedfollower467/pseuds/dedicatedfollower467
Summary: As the new King-Under-the-Mountain, it is Fili's job to distribute the dragon's hoard, to determine who truly needs it, who merely wants it, and who is unworthy of Erebor's riches.It's a difficult series of decisions to make, and it is made no easier by his own self-doubt.





	Dragon Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't the WIP I said I wanted to work on, but I started this fic ages ago and this snippet is finally ready, so fuck it.
> 
> I don't think "Graphic Depictions of Violence" really applies to this fic, but if you think it does please let me know immediately and I'll change the warnings.

Fili would like nothing more than to sink a knife into Thranduil’s pale stringy throat.

He even knows exactly which knife would look best in that frozen neck. It is, as a matter of fact, the one he wears third from the leftmost edge of his inner tunic, with the stout iron handle and few decorations except for some blunt, geometric designs. They would contrast nicely with the spindly filigree that elves seem so fond of wearing along the collar. In short, it is a distinctly dwarven blade that Fili would like to see sunk deep into one particular woodland king’s flesh.

Fantasizing about murdering important foreign leaders that he can’t afford to offend isn’t exactly the healthiest way to cope with the responsibility of ruling a kingdom. Particularly because, after the Battle of the Five Armies, just thinking about blood and death can sometimes send Fili into spiraling panic and fear for his life and the lives of his kin. Fili is aware of this. He does it anyway.

It helps that generally when he thinks about methodically slicing open Thranduil’s jugular, the elf king in question is nowhere nearby. Just one of his toady little ambassadors, demanding the return of elvish heirlooms and harrowing the few dwarves who have stayed to make their home in the mountain.

Kili’s elf friend, Tauriel, says that Thranduil rarely looks beyond his borders, and then sniffs in contempt at his apathy. Fili would much prefer if he would keep to his own borders and not send people to make thinly veiled threats against Erebor.

They set Fili’s blood boiling, they really do. Fili does not appreciate subtle comments about the sparsity of the guards on the battlements or how slowly the reconstruction is going. He doesn’t need the reminder of Erebor’s vulnerability, how empty and dark the halls of his forebears feel.

And furthermore, he doesn’t appreciate the little digs at the sanity of the Durin line, nor the not-quite-voiced accusations that Fili has been holding back part of the treasure because he has fallen to the dragon-sickness.

“These things take time!” he wants to scream at the tall pointy blonds who simper and smirk at him. “Do you know how to catalogue a mountain full of treasure? Can you read the maker’s mark on every coin and goblet and candlestick to ensure that we dwarves do not sacrifice our heritage on the altar of your greed? Have you ever watched your kinsman fall sway to the bed of a dragon and worry the same weakness lies in you?”

Fili cannot scream at the elves as he wishes. Nor can he allow himself to go and look over the very treasure which he has the final say in doling out to the needy folk of Dale and the grasping hands of Thranduil’s people. Because the dragon lies in his heart, just as it had in Thorin’s.

Hadn’t he felt its presence the moment he’d stepped within these desecrated halls? Before even he’d heard Bilbo’s voice, or caught the slightest glimmer of reflected gold, hadn’t he been drawn, called deeper to where the treasure lay? Fili had known where the riches were without prior knowledge of Erebor’s halls.

And the sight, that very first sight, of such incredible wealth, spread out like a carpet before a king… Fili knew his Maker had created him with a love for craft and beauty. He’d been born with the desire to make and mold the hidden treasures of the earth, with admiration for the work of his people’s hands. But Fili also knew in his heart of hearts that when he saw Erebor’s gold he was not overcome with love of craft but base greed. A want so petty and powerful it could consume him.

Fili had watched it consume Thorin, and sometimes finds his treacherous heart agreeing even now. Why should the dwarves part with one single, solitary coin? It is theirs! Even the riches of Men and the jewels of Elves had first been crafted by dwarven hands! How dare Thranduil make demands, when he is not even fit to come crawling on his knees, begging for a few chipped stones!

But that, Fili knows, is the dragon talking. And he cannot allow himself to succumb to it.

So he holds his temper in meetings with the elvish ambassadors, keeps his silent screams under his tongue, and envisions stout dwarven knives sticking out of Thranduil’s pretty throat. It is better than curling around his hoard of gold and growling “Mine! Mine!” until he can look into a mirror and see scales forming around the edges of his eyes and flames spraying from his mouth.

No. Contemplating murder is the much more attractive option.


End file.
